namida no beercan
by Kurama Barton
Summary: Youji's life in a nutshell... or, rather, a can of beer...


**namida no beercan**  
**first can**

I don't want to go home yet.  
  
But I have to. I always have to.  
  
Given a choice, if ever I had a flat of my own, I'd just stay there and live there rather than go home.  
  
But I never had that luxury of course.  
  
Going home from school everyday, my bicycle slowing as I pedal nearer to the house, I always get some unexplainable kind of constriction in my chest, or some sense of dread of what I would meet when I arrive.  
  
I really don't want to go home.  
  
Reluctantly, I step down from the bike and ease it up the open driveway. I could hear the usual shouts inside the house, as I quietly park my bike, lock the gate after me, and go in. The shouts gradually subside, then start again after a half-minute. Not bothering to know where the shouts were but long pinpointed subconsciously where the exact location is, I walk noiselessly through the usual high-ceiling corridors and past numerous open and closed doors, really sorry that I went in this early. Half-wishing that I'd reach that day when I'd finally learn to shut it all out, half-wishing that I'd reach that day when I would finally never care. The "arguments" were never that often anyway, I'd like to believe, but when they happen, they happen like shit.  
  
Shitty soap opera. Violence in disguise.  
  
I really hate it.  
  
At the corner of my eye someone from the opposite room sees me arrive. Drowsiness and an impending headache suddenly threatening to succumb me under their influence, I push open the door to my room and lock myself in.  
  
I ignored him, as if I've never seen him at all.  
  


  
  
I think I actually woke up one day just to realize how pathetic my life had become.   


  
  
  
I don't know, when I drink I suddenly feel quite drained of my emotions. As if they suddenly fly away. I drink, and the problems and the extreme thought processes and all philosophical stuff suddenly fly from my mind. Much like the feeling of having your headache evaporated out, literally, from your brain when you drink cold water. Or thirst being quenched that fast when you drink Gatorade.  
  
And like Gatorade, you actually feel yourself drinking more, just to erase the sour aftertaste. With beer though, you don't just erase the aftertaste --- you actually even amplify it. At the same time. Crazy but true. Or it might just be my interpretation.  
  
And in that sense, I find myself liking it. Just concentrate on the taste instead of the philosophy. It makes me sleep. Makes me forget.  
  


  
  
I really can't remember the first time I drank something alcoholic. But the clearest thing that hits me was actually one of my night-outs with a professor. There were also other people there. Classmates. We had to get a grade, you see. But I also like to be closer to this prof, in a non-selfish sense. He's interesting. He seemed cool, but I could sense some kind of fire --- some darkness, some depression --- burning in him. Maybe because of his nearly-waning youth. Or, maybe, still-youth. One of the girls in class used to tell me that he was actually like that --- she just never took his "drama" seriously.   
  
Just like me.  
  
People are like that. They actually don't listen to a person because they knew they couldn't help them. And it's also a waste of time. Unless you can't get anything from a person, it's useless attempting to help him. At least, that's what I believe.  
  
And you never know --- that person might just be joking. He might actually want something from you.  
  
I actually want him to like me, just so I could know if everything they said about him was true. I might even get an answer to my own questions if I'm lucky.  
  
Anyway, at that time, I had to pretend I drank before. Or often. Of course, or else you'll be the laughingstock of the group. Or my prof would just look at me concerned throughout the night or even send me home. I don't want to go home. I want to drink. I want to satisfy my curiosity. I actually feel I've drank before. Not at the point though that I was finally too drunk. I actually remember the last time as me getting a taste of my uncle's leftover beer at some party. I didn't like the taste that must be the reason why it was long before I actually touched a bottle again.  
  
I actually want to know now how much beer I can handle before I pass out.  
  
I had to control myself before I pass out, however. My classmates were perverts. They might do something to me while I'm sleeping --- just what my elders always warn me about.  
  
So drink moderately was what I did. There were times I had to do the drinking discreetly, or just to impress others. Pretend that I can drink that much.  
  
Mostly, I just drank on and on. I don't know why. Because I wanted to bury something in me? I really couldn't pinpoint what it is, but I know deep inside that I hate it. Much. Or maybe I'm just denying it  
  
I don't want to think about me getting scolded when I get home, though that thought actually didn't leave me the whole night. Still didn't stop me from having fun.  
  
After that, though, I wondered, and I still wonder, if that was really some fun  
  


  
  
Some people say that when you have problems you shouldn't drink. Others say the opposite --- and even add that it's good at washing the angst away. Sometimes both are said quite jokingly, or said cautiously. You actually get the impression that those who say that you shouldn't drink when you're turbulent are those who are really concerned for you --- if you're like me, however, I get the idea that they're just scared shit that you might do something drastic. Or something "tragic". Or something that's plain "stupid", as the "strong ones" would eloquently put it.  
  
I don't believe that there's someone "strong" anymore.  
  
I do the opposite.  
  
Well, of course I'm still scared, that's why there's still some control in me. I'm afraid that I might kill myself or something... maybe slash myself or just drink myself to death. And to think that I wish or think death all the time everytime I drink. Yeah, I'm that chicken enough, far from what everybody sees me --- a wise, though mostly silent, pillar of strength. When I'm sober, that is.  
  
I'm actually that tried of being --- or pretending to be? --- "strong".  
  
So I occasionally snuck beer into my room. As long as I could remember it before I get home and before my depression quells I'd go to a store and buy myself some. In cans, though --- cans are easier to slip in my knapsack and I could even walk around the house without them being noticed. And I also think that bottles are messy and impractical --- I wouldn't risk have them break in my bag and spill inside. I'd get caught, that's why --- beer's got some strong smell. And I must thank that god too for somehow forbidding my body from developing a belly.  
  
So first it was three, then four, then five. Etc., etc. As long as my bag could handle it. And as long as the shops would let me. 7-11, though --- they say they don't let minors buy, even those that are already 18 in age. One branch said that I should be 19 or something. Well, fuck them. I go to another convenience store. I go out happy. Forget street stores --- they just take a look at you and you're not allowed anymore. Huh. May they lose customers.  
  
I even got to try different beer brands, actually. Some brands just make you feel like throwing up even before you take six sips. Others are plain smooth. But what I'd like most of all is some beer brand that doesn't taste that bad but knocks you out fast.  
  


  
  
So when there's chaos downstairs, I drink. When there's the usual sermon, I drink. I drink in my room. As long as possible, with lights closed. So that they would think that I'm already asleep or something. That goes for nights. I get depressed much during nights. Because it's when the family gets together? At mornings, there's school and all for the kids and me, everyone's busy. At nights, though, you can't escape them. So they always seem to argue the first minute they see each other again --- at least that's what I think so.  
  
I may be wrong. Still, it makes me sick. I don't know if I should be glad or something. Maybe I shouldn't because I couldn't do my homework. How could I when I'm spending the time covering my ears and drinking under lights out? Makes me want to move out.  
  
And, pathetically, I always feel like crying. Alcohol finally kicking in as a depressant, most probably. Doesn't stop as long as my chest hurts. I actually don't know why it hurts.   
  
Pain, I guess? Pain seems to be my constant bedmate already, yet I don't know why I'm still not used to it. And who am I to feel pain? I'm supposed to be "strong". Well, what the hell.  
  
I just try to drown it all out fast with the alcohol, concentrating hard on the taste, waiting, feeling, and willing for the knockout. Wishing that the drowsiness would arrive before the depression, I guess. Almost immediately I feel the kick, but still not enough. My head lolls back, against the bed. Hoping that I would finally learn to shut out all the voices. I wish I was on a plane's runway instead, maybe that would be much better. At least the runway has rhythm, with its monotonous earsplitting noise. But here...  
  
As something similar to sleepiness nears me, I suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe. Hell. I grabbed a pillow, pressed it against my face and sniffed to clear my nose. I thought the drowsiness would kick in before ---?!  
  
I can't let them hear me crying.  
  
Once they know that I am, they'll demand what's wrong and enumerate to me all the good and nurturing things they've done for me while I was growing up. As a matter of fact, that's the topic of the sermon they're giving now downstairs. With that volume level in their voices, I actually think they're making sure I hear all of what they're saying.  
  
Maybe they're wrong in their approach, or maybe I'm wrong at being too sensitive. Why am I this sensitive? I don't know. I can't remember when I first became like this. I'm that lost.  
  
And I still don't know why I'm crying. Fuck... I'm supposed to be a man...  
  
Maybe because I think it's all my fault?  
  
Maybe, if I wasn't born, then there'll be no more sermons to the kids downstairs because my caretakers wouldn't be there to do those in the first place. Or, the kids wouldn't be there to listen to the sermons in the first place since my caretakers haven't brought them along. Maybe, if they knew I was crying, they'll call my parents up and my parents would get worried to the point that they would finally go home and be forced to look after me. Jobless. And then, we would all starve, and my caretakers would think that I'm one ungrateful brat that they're sorry they ever 'cared' for  
  
My caretakers got that much children --- so by now they should have known how hard it is to look after children, coupled with the fact that they constantly think that their lives were better off before they were assigned to be caretakers. If so, why didn't they reject the offer of looking after me and the kids in the first place? Too many 'maybe's in the world, I guess  
  
It's that easy to hate the ones you thought you loved  
  


  
  
Yeah, my parents actually recruited the caretakers to look after me and the kids while they're away working at some place in America. They make that much business trips that takes three years before they get back. We're still not that rich, though understandably, money has its own cycle. Like beer, I guess, when it is being brewed. Sometimes you hit the right taste, sometimes you miss. I have to understand. They're preparing for my future.  
  
Problem is, I don't seem to know my future anymore. I think I've finally gone past that point where I dream and dream like a kid, because oftentimes I don't know if they're actually making me follow their ambitions or mine. Shit.  
  
Or, I don't know why am I alive. I don't know what I'm supposed to live for anymore. I don't know anymore what really mattered. Maybe money is really what mattered. Or maybe I'm just plain unlucky that I've been born in a quite traditional family. I've become a plain fucking cynic. I gulp down my Bud again.  
  
_Plain fucking cynic_  
  
Nice phrase.  
  
I did develop an addiction for closed lights.  
  


  
  
I also developed an addiction for shades. You know --- to cut the glare. Having lights closed every night does lower your normal tolerance for bright lights in the mornings. Also, it's a good friend for those with hangovers. Though I think I don't get hangovers at all --- I can still control my beer intake, that's why. I guess. Also, hangovers are a sucker at school --- I have to concentrate on the lessons. I have to be good.  
  
Some of my classmates think that I actually look much better with shades on. Sometimes I believe them. I don't wear them inside the classroom though --- only out on the sun. But the slightest sheen of sweat makes it slide too often down my nose, and that makes me irritated. Gets tiring pushing it up again and again once in a while.  
  
Plenty think I really look cool, though. The older ladies, mostly. Maybe it's the shades' combination with my height --- I must've looked like an actor or something. True --- I just notice that I've grown much taller than the average Japanese.  
  
Being that, my caretakers, I notice, seem to get even more intimidated day after day, I begin to earn the respect of the bullies in my class, and I get flirted at too often by those bar girls who would occasionally pass by the school. One of them actually succeeded in dragging me to their bar.  
  


  
  
It was actually an adult bar. My parents would most probably get a heart attack if they knew I went to a place like this. My caretakers --- most probably they'd report the thing to my parents. Huh. I wonder if my prof frequents this place.  
  
_I_ actually frequented the place. I did go home late at nights, just like anybody who had experienced something good from something forbidden for the first time and didn't get caught for it. I'd reason out to my caretakers that I had projects to finish, they'd express disbelief, but that's all --- and I'd hide my flunking report cards. Though sometimes, when I'm at the bar, I get scared at the possibility that they'd suddenly raid the place and catch me drinking or smoking pot --- typical thing for them to do whenever one of the kids is missing from the house for quite long. Yeah, there's also plenty of drugs in the bar --- what bar wouldn't have them --- just as long as you look in the right place. The drugs seem to be as myriad as the concoctions of alcohol I try out every night. The bar's almost like school to me --- if only it's also open at mornings  
  
Though the alcohol was fun at my new-found heaven, even more fun than watching the drugged or drunk people, there was one thing about it that I didn't like. The women. Or, more accurately, the girls. I somehow still couldn't understand the psychology for taking in extremely young girls just to attract more male customers, and I still couldn't understand how these girls could stand those pathetic men pawing at them Well, okay, to not look too hypocritical, I do get aroused sometimes whenever some older woman - take note, woman --- would paw at me, but for godsakes --- some of the young ones were actually just ten years old. The same age as one of the kids at home, and the thought alone is enough to make me sick and stop me from drinking too much lest I lose control to finally pounce on one of them.  
  
So I made it a point just to pick up the girls at legal age. 18 up, I guess or not, since those still at '-teen' still repulses me. At their 20s then, ideally.  
  
Of course, with that preference, I didn't escape from getting laid too early.  
  


  
  
So the first time was really nice, still gives me goosebumps whenever I think of it. I really liked it, to the point even that my addiction for it was worse than my addiction for beer, but --- I don't know --- I felt empty? No, that wasn't exactly it I really don't know. No contentment, I guess?  
  
Plainly, the sex didn't fill that scorching nameless void in me, no matter how many times I did it.  
  
Still, I did it. Too much action that I often wondered why I still didn't get STD or something  
  
After all, how could you satiate something you can't even name?  
  


  
  
Alcohol and sex. Beer and sex. A little drugs at the side. Just make sure you don't look like shit when you go to school the next day. If I had lived in a lie before, now I've lived in the actual hell --- I think I didn't care about anything anymore. I didn't study that much anymore, didn't speak that much to anyone. I must have been giving that nameless thing in me too much priority, but what else could I do? It's practically tearing my head apart. Too much questions  
  
I suppose I still have to be thankful that there's too much hellish distractions just to curb or forget it though.  
  
Yet, it never goes away. I must have become a very bad boy.  
  
I was falling, I knew, and I didn't want to --- yet I'm starting to believe that there's no sober god anymore out there to at least hear me.  
  
Pathetically, at the same time, it seemed like I'm also starting to yearn for someone to save me from my shit.   
  
  


  
"Aren't you too young to be here?"  
  
She had frowned. Well, that person with the cap and bulky overcoat has got to be a girl, since I'm already an expert on identifying who is and who's not a girl even at a distance. Even when I'm drunk. Or lights out.  
  
But this person wouldn't admit that he or she is one, and I immediately got piqued. Didn't look either as someone who would like to apply for a "job" or maybe I'm just damn too observant. Nobody bothers to watch other people anymore at crowdy and noisy places like this, that's why.  
  
"Aren't you too?"  
  
_Girl_. I raise an eyebrow as I put down my glass, and I turn to face her, starting to open my mouth, when I suddenly felt something jab at my side.  
  
So I obeyed, though I didn't know why. Though I also knew that I could easily snatch that silencer from her grasp even when I'm this drunk  
  
Reaching the alley at the back, one of my legs suddenly gave way, and I found myself kneeling at the ground, blinking and wondering why I ended up that way.  
  
The person had kicked me at the back of my knee, I realized, and that some shoe heel was digging painfully there. I almost laughed at that --- the realization that I've been numb the whole time. But too strong for a girl. I tried spinning around to get the person off-balanced, but the gun's cold cylinder had immediately pressed at my nape.  
  
"I'm trying to do you a favor. There's going to be a raid tonight --- you wouldn't want your parents see you at some dungy police station, would you?"  
  
Girl.  
  
"Of course not."  
  
The heel removed itself from the back of my knee, and I slowly turn around to sit down and see my assailant lifting the gun from my neck. The person is a girl --- no mistaking the curves underneath the coat. Sheathing her gun, she turned and walked back in the bar unsympathetically.  
  
I suddenly felt angry, but I didn't get in anymore. The bartender had warned me about people like her, and though I didn't like the way she treated me, I had to follow. For my own good. I'm even supposed to be grateful, since people like her weren't supposed to do that. I stood up and walked home, earlier than usual. My caretakers were amazed.  
  
I think I want to get back at her one day.  
  


  
  
Criminology I didn't finish. My parents and caretakers didn't exactly approve of the whole path I chose and how I walked it. No surprise since I knew I was --- and still is --- a delinquent, yet I know that I still haven't lost my edge in letting the lessons sink in. Must be in my genes, to the fact that my parents were more like mathematicians --- or maybe I'm just plain too obsessed over   
  
I still drank. Actually, when I finally moved out of the house to live in some small apartment somewhere, I was tipsy by five cans. The ire of my parents and caretakers again at my idea of being self-sufficient, to my resent, but I knew I had to get out of the house. And now was the most reasonable chance I had of doing that. Things were getting worse then --- it was indebtedness and gratitude versus free will. Though I hated the idea of leaving the house and the kids, I left.  
  
And I had the luxury of buying my own stock of beer cartons freely without anyone raising their eyebrows.  
  
I eventually even rented the room next door to serve as my office. I built my own detective service, just in case.  
  
So she came one afternoon, as I expected her to. She looked more mature now. Much like me.  
  
"Murase Asuka desu. I'd like to ---"  
  
"You're already accepted."  
  
I made sure that I calmly looked up at her from my paperwork, for the first time since she went in. Recognition I saw in her eyes, but her face remained blank. I had to keep myself from smiling.  
  
She had to keep herself from frowning.  
  


  
  
I don't know why I didn't drink that much anymore when she came. Actually, it's to the point that I'd only drink a can a day, or, worse, a can a week or two, even when I've got those stored boxes of Bud in the ref always waiting for me. Maybe I'm trying to impress her? Give the impression that I am damn more responsible now than the last time we met? That I'm not just that delinquent who just drinks his butt out in some red light district? Well, fuck --- I don't really know why I'm giving that bitch some importance  
  
Erase that. She's not really a bitch --- just acts like one sometimes. Oftentimes I can't help but think that the only facial expression she could pull off is frowning. I can see it in her face --- that the money and the job were all she ever wanted --- and if ever she's grateful at all for the free board and lodging, she doesn't show it. She isn't impressed at all that I'm her boss, that I'm in control of all the detective jobs I give her, and she would even dare to rebel by not going by my rules. As long as possible, she would even dare go off on a task on her own. To the extent that it makes me want to strangle her, actually, and grit my teeth and wish that some other applicant would come by and ease the load off my shoulders  
  
No one else came though. Ever after. Some god out there must be happy in seeing my misery, considering that I'm the one who's supposed to be making her life hell.  
  
Well, yeah, I'm ranting. I hate her.  
  
But actually, it's like I didn't make her life hell. As if I didn't want to in the first place.  
  
She thinks the opposite, though. She sees me as someone who's enough hell for her.  
  
I watched her struggle with the carton for a while, her small frame trying very hard to half-lift and half-drag up the stairs a box bigger than her, until I finally sighed and put down my can.  
  
"Let me," I said, approaching and gently pulling the carton from her. She tugged back.  
  
"I can do this myself." Frosty tone rang again in decibels in my ear, and, feeling quite irritated, I frowned back at her.  
  
"What's your problem?! You obviously can't do this by yourself. Look at you! Too thin!"  
  
She was shut up for a moment. Then the glare.  
  
"Well, fuck."  
  
She rammed the carton at my chest and stormed out. And suddenly I didn't know what the hell happened. Are things really getting that worse?  
  


  
  
I really couldn't understand why she's so hotheaded. The cold treatment was even colder after that. Now she never waits for me when there's a mission. Just gives me a harsh look whenever I ask her what she's doing. The harsh look was actually so scorching that I couldn't talk to her nor give her missions verbally anymore, nor even go with her anymore --- lest she would suddenly explode at me and make me lose an employee.  
  
So I'd write them down on a piece of paper and tack them to the fridge. Thankfully, I'd find the paper gone in the morning, and the contented client coming a few days later  
  
But the treatment still drives me nuts. Acting as if I didn't exist, totally ignoring me even if we're in the same room --- of course who could stand having an atmosphere that tense?  
  
Wait a minute_ I'm_ the boss here, right?  
  
I think I began drinking a lot again since then. Maybe because out of frustration that like my teenage years with my caretakers, I don't have the upper hand again.  
  
  


  
I discovered I'm not the only one though.  
  
So that's why I find some of the cans missing occasionally.  
  
I sensed, rather than saw, her sneak in one night and carefully lift some from the fridge. She must have thought that I was that shot dead on the couch, with my eyes closed and all oblivious to the TV fizzing loud in front of me. She should have learned to sneak in through the fire exit if she didn't want me to know.  
  
Her door closed, and I got up, rubbed my eyes and checked my clock. Okay. 3:28 a.m. Late again. I really wonder why she takes that long just to finish an investigation. Well, of course that's what I like about her when she's doing the job she's that dedicated but  
  
I must admit --- though I hate her, I'm still concerned. Even if you'll turn the world inside out, she's still a woman, and it's always dangerous for women to still stay out this late.  
  
I stretched on the couch, contemplated for a minute or two if I should finally confront her about going back in this late again. She might just snap at my face though.  
  
I reached for the remote, flipped through the channels. Static. Ten minutes. I looked at her door, then went to the fridge myself to get a six-pack. My face must have fell when I saw the empty space where a six-pack should have been. Huh. So she's a heavy drinker herself? I picked up three cans instead and walked back to the couch. Four minutes.  
  
I noticed the stains.  
  
I lazily stretched and poked at one spot with my bare toe. Damp. Very recent. I haven't vomited, have I? Raising up my foot to the TV's light though, the wet spot was a dark red.  
  
I quickly straightened from the couch, squinted down at the carpet. Other spots I saw despite the TV's poor available light. A trail that stretched from the front door to  
  
I frowned, setting down my can and standing up again. Somehow I didn't feel too good as I walked to her door and mindlessly twisted the knob.  
  
Even in the darkness, I could see that the stains were bigger here. Puddles, actually, and my nose immediately met the mixed stench of spilled beer and   
  
Startled, I scanned further, and I saw her sitting on the floor, the side of the bed supporting her back, crushed and uncrushed beer cans lying around, and a white band that looked like gauze stretched between her right hand and teeth.  
  
"What the hell?!" I was already by her side before I even realized it, my knee dipping into what might be even more blood or beer, clutching her left arm. The wound, I noticed, was not really new, yet dark red rivulets streaked down my hand. Probing further, my fingers found an old gunshot wound underneath the ripped tissue, making her wince.  
  
The cut was not too professional. She had tried to extract the bullet herself.  
  
I somehow felt nauseated.  
  
She had looked blankly at me for a second or so after that very moment I held her arm, eyes betraying nothing but the dazed look of a drunk, before finally gathering the usual frown I associated with a sound Asuka, "I can do this myself."   
  
"The fuck you can do this yourself!" I yelled angrily at her, strangely panicked at the same time, taking the end of the gauze that fell out of her mouth when she spoke and snatching the other end that she was still feebly trying to pull tighter across her bloodied arm. She tried to snatch the gauze back, but I quickly tightened the tourniquet in one pull, eliciting a hiss and her protesting hand falling away. "What the hell happened to you?! Where did you get this?"  
  
"It's none of your business!" She snatched away her arm. "I can take care of myself!!"  
  
Somehow I managed to stop myself before I could slap her, rocking back on my heels instead and clenching my fists angrily against the floor. Trying to will my chest to cool it. Why is she so stubborn? After everything I had tried to do for her, after all the concern I tried to show  
  
"The hell you can," I hissed back then. So she always hates it when I try to help her? What is this bitch trying to prove?  
  
"I'm not that weak." A voice floated tiredly. So unlike Asuka... "Go away."  
  
I still sat there, those words not really registering with that red anger still draped over my eyes. By the time it did though, I couldn't see the slightest movement from the woman in front of me.  
  
"Murase." She was curled into a ball, save for the wounded arm loose at her side. Though very wary that I'd get some harsh reproach afterwards, I finally shook her knee gently. My worry must have equated more than my self-fear. "Oi." She wouldn't stir even after I tried in turn poking her head slumped between her knees.  
  
I'm very scared now, so I finally pushed at her shoulders, uncurling her. It must have been the moonlight, but she seemed too pale and her body too limp.   
  
"Murase. Baka, wake up." I tried to hear if she's still breathing. Somehow I was rewarded with that slight brush of warm air against my ear, though it was somewhat hitched and unnerving.   
  
She must have drank that much. Or she must have lost that much blood, though I don't think she would need a transfusion  
  
I gingerly half-dragged and half-lifted her from the floor to the bed. Still no response.  
  
With her finally tucked in the bed, I wanted to leave then and there, but the stain and smell of blood had bothered me.  
  
I really hate it when I get into this kind of situation. Blood. Though I've been trained for years to look at blood as if I was looking at a lamppost it still bothered me. Now I wish again that I'd reach that day when I'd finally learn to shut it all out, that I'd reach that day when I would finally never care  
  
I turned on the light though I might wake her. She did not stir.  
  
I began to clean up.

**to be continued...**

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_010602  
Schreiben: This first part finished in re-edit at 010602. *falls down tired* any comments...?_

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© 2000, by Kurama Dylan Barton.  
Disclaimer: The points of view and events depicted here sometimes do not coincide with the actual Weiss Kreuz storyline or real life. I know I don't own Weiss Kreuz, so it would be pointless to sue me. Weiß Kreuz and all its likenesses are a copyright of Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiß. 


End file.
